Portrait In Red
by wrestlefan4
Summary: Jeff helps Chris to see what things have really come to; nothing more than a portrait of despair. Slash. ONE SHOT ONLY.


Raven hair twines around my fingers, the strands tighten and bite at the fleshy pads of my fingers, and then loosen from the scalp as I yank harder, desperately. My hands still threaded with the midnight curls grip those strong shoulders that I had once loved, and my short nails try to latch on, scrabbling at the olive-tan skinned, sliding against the sweat. It feels so good to have my legs wrapped around his waist, and my head pressed back against the mattress. My face must look contorted with pleasure, and red as that fire-engine everyone talks about, because I can feel the heat in it, radiating through my whole body. I love the feel and sounds of our wet bodies slapping and sliding against each other. I love the lingering taste on my lips of his full ones crushed to mine, I savor the taste of his release still fresh against my tongue, and fuck do I die for the way he feels inside so deep and maddening with each powerful thrust.

I try to forget that what we're doing now is secret, that our lips met in the hallway as his eyes darted around hoping no other saw. Our fevered touching and rubbing quickly became too much and we pulled each other into my room. His foot had barely kicked the door closed when I'd started to undress him. The meeting of my hands against his beautiful bared skin was electric and as powerful as any orgasm, that's how much I miss him, and how much I need him. I close my eyes tighter, trying to fight away the things that make me want to cry, and overtake these brief, stolen, moments of passion. I press them to the back of my mind and focus on the things he's making me feel: alive and awake. Maybe if I open my eyes, and look up into his sex-wrenched face, I'll see the love still swirling with lust in the endless, soul-capturing depths of his dark eyes. If I look hard enough there, maybe I can see that the last few months have never happened, that he never said those words to me.

I can still hear them, not resounding in my ears or my mind, but against the walls of my heart. They echo there like drips from a busted faucet at midnight, like my tears in the darkness.

Matt's hands grip my hips, moving them so he can get more out of me, but everything is so confusing for me right now. I don't know if I love this, or hate it. My body and soul seem out of sync with one another, as my flesh reacts as it's designed to as he hits that sweet spot that's down deep. But whatever ghost resides within this writhing body can't be touched any more. That spot is even deeper, and it's cold as the icy words that tore it apart.

One more hammer and he stops. He slips out of me and I whimper at the loss of him so completely filling me. He moves up my body and straddles me chest. His hand roughly pumps his engorged member a couple times before that familiar look comes over his face and I know he's cumming. The cry of his release wails out and burns hot against my ears. I wait to hear my own sing harmony to his, but there is nothing but the splash of Matt's wetness over my face.

I thought he might notice that things weren't completed. I thought he might stroke me the way he used to if we didn't finish off at the same time. He knows every spot and touch that sets me off and he used to find them all so lovingly and bring me over, whispering into my ear with his warm, wet breath: _Chrissy you look so perfect when you cum for me._

Now, he doesn't seem to notice. What's worse, maybe he does notice, and just doesn't care. The bed creaks and the mattress moves beneath me as he shifts off of it. I watch him without a word able to leave my lips as he plucks his scattered clothing from the floor and re-dresses himself. He's not going to finish me, he's not even going to stay. We used to tangle ourselves together after and just bask in the warm, comforting glow. We would just lay there content, with our passions spent, lazily playing with hair or listening to the steady thumps of each others heartbeats. Now the only throb I hear is the ache building behind my eyes as they prepare themselves for another night of silent tears to rape them. The door slams, and I'm alone.

The tears start to trickle and swim in my ears. I hate being alone, abandoned, unwanted. I've always thrived on attention. I need it more than others, and probably more than is healthy for me. My biggest fear in life is that I will be cast aside, and become nothing more than a shadow. I think it may already be happening, and that makes my stomach tie itself in knots with my lungs so I feel like I'm going to throw up and suffocate all at once.

I know where I can go to stop the panic and pain. It used to be the person who just left me, but I have to fully accept that those times are long gone. Matt ended us, and I haven't.

The night Matt had so matter-of-factly broken the news to me, I went to only one person I could think of. We were at Matt's place in Cameron and Jeff was next door. That's where I went. When Matt and I had first set out on our journey as a couple, Jeff had been the first person to insist we wouldn't work, and that I was all wrong for Matt. As time passed, he changed his mind seeing how we had easily proven the opposite. I can't understand why Matt ended us the way he did, after everything we had withstood together. There's a whole locker room that can attest to how we stuck together through some dark, powerful, storms. What had first been dubbed by practically everyone as a disaster waiting to happen, had slowly been reversed and re-named as the kind of relationship that would never be eroded no matter how hard the rain hammered, and how angrily the winds of lifes storms blew.

Jeff and I had become so close, after he finally accepted me as what I thought I was to Matt-his soul mate. I had searched so long for that, leaving many shitty choices and train wrecked relationships along the way, and I thought now I had really found that thing which is the pinnacle of human need. I became like Jeff's other brother and he like mine, so it was only natural that I cried on his shoulder that night, as he spoke of things that were meant to be comfort but seemed more like spiritual riddles.

Night one was only the beginning, as loneliness kept tugging at me. I spent a lot of time with Jeff, and mostly we just talked. Sometimes our conversations were about Matt, other times they went to things like music, art, movies, wrestling, life and its elusive meaning. He was such a rock for me. Jeff Hardy is so much stronger than people give him credit for, I know that first hand. On the other hand, people probably envision me to be a lot stronger than I am. Arrogance isn't a sign of being confident and strong, it's a scared mans attempt to hide his inadequacies. At each turn in life, I'm finding I have more and more of them, and I'm afraid they're so great that no one will want me.

I swipe away some of my tears and roll off the bed. I gather up my clothes and get dressed. My shoes stay tossed near the nightstand, one oddly topping the other. My bare feet take me down the hallway to a room where Jeff is staying. He's here to talk with Vince for some reason, I don't know the details. I just know his room number, and I know I can seek comfort from his arms.

He lets me in with a concerned glance at my tearstained face. His emerald eyes affix there and seem to be studying it.

"Hey man, what's wrong?" His fingers reach up to my cheek, and gently touch it. "You were with Matty tonight, weren't ya?" He asks, and I remember that my tears aren't the only thing staining my face.

Jeff leads me over to the bed and I catch a quick reflection of myself in the mirror—distraught and disheveled, my hair wet and clinging to my forehead, my cheeks glistening with tears, Matt's cum still wet and splattered across my forehead, over the bridge of my nose, down one cheek, a few pearly drops had even managed to stay clinging to my lashes despite my crying. A thin line was tracked down my neck, and disappeared beneath the collar of the open shirt I wore. It's then seeing that sorrowful, trashy, glimpse of myself that I realize how much I have been used. I feel even worse than before, something I didn't think was possible. Numbness trickles through me, and I know with a certainty that makes me feel sick, that I will keep letting Matt use me if he wants to. I need any bit of him that I can get, there is no low I won't sink to just to have one second of him back in my pathetic life.

"Let me make you feel better, Chrissy." Jeff says over my meaningless, stricken babble.

He pushes me onto my back and sits on my waist, rocking a little. The movements register to me, sending blaring signals, as his jean covered body brushes against a part of me that's still sensitive and a little hardened from not being finished with Matt. The arousal that had almost drained from my mind, overpowered by sorrow, was suddenly surging through my veins and nerves again with such a simple touch. I was quiet, wondering what he was doing. He leans down, and his tongue flicks velvety and wet against my face. Sensuously the pink muscle slides over my wet skin and takes away the filth and sadness that paints me.

"Mmm, oh Chris…" Jeff moans, as his lips make their way down my neck tasting and licking.

His hands grip tight to the muscles of my chest and then his fingers slide down, the black nails catching and scraping against the perked nipples.

"You taste so good. You taste like Matt." He grunts, and moves his face down to my chest nuzzling."And you still smell like him too…but I bet you don't want to. Chris, you need to let Matt go."

He lifts his head and gazes deeply into my eyes with those vibrant green ones. He bends again and presses his lips to mine, forcing mine open and slithering his tongue inside. I can taste the salt of my tears, and Matt's essence on Jeff's tongue as it moves and mingles against mine. It's the best and worst torture. My fingers grip the back of his head, grabbing onto the short hair, and smashing our lips tighter, forcing our tongues so deep into each other that I can barely breathe. I wouldn't mind suffocating on the taste of Matt at all. Finally, Jeff breaks away, leaving me panting and dragging air into my aching lungs. His eyes are closed now, as he sits back and grinds against me again. A smile crooks his lips half up in a completely pleased expression.

"Ah…ooh…very good. Mmm so very good." He purrs, and the low, gravely tone makes me shiver and writhe beneath him.

The twang of his voice sounds so close to Matt's, that I could easily warp it to be Matt's if I want too, but I try to focus on Jeff. His words that I should "try and let Matt go" tug at me as his hand moves between my legs and presses against the aching hardness that stretch the denim there. Fuck, it feels so good that I start to give in to what my body has already over reacted to.

"Don't you want to stop tasting that other man? Don't you want to stop seeing him when you close your eyes? I can fix it, I can fix it all."

His voice is so hypnotic, and I want it to be true on some level: if I can't have Matt, then I want to forget that he has ever existed. Maybe that would make the pain go away, maybe that would make me stop hurting so damn much. Yet, I know how impossible that is.

"Taste, and see. I can make you free…just come taste and see how sweet this freedom is."

Jeff wiggles his jeans down his hips, baring the soft looking paleness. He has nothing underneath, but a responsive cock which he strokes a couple times once it's bare. He moves away from me and sits back on his heels, lazily curling his hand around his length. I consider his invitation, and crawl over to him. His hands wrap into my hair and guid me towards the place where he wanted my mouth. I flick my tongue across the head, making Jeff growl low in his throat. He isn't up for teasing or the usual kind of drawn out pleasure I can give with my mouth it seems like though. He just wants it hard and fast.

He grips my chin and yanks my mouth open and shoves in all at once. The sudden full penetration makes me cough and choke. It isn't really a blow job, just a brutal throat fuck. He keeps hammering with his hips, using his hands to yank my hair and smash my head forward to meet each jarring thrust. The sounds he makes and the curses he spits after repetitious pounding lets me know he's close and I only hope I don't breathe at the wrong time get a lung full of his release.

I don't have to worry about that though. He pulls out, and for the second time that night that pearly liquid jets over my face and runs slowly down in sticky strings and splotches. I gasp trying to heave air into my aching lungs and it burns against my raw throat and bruised lips. I pry my eyes open a little and quickly squeeze them closed again as the sexual goo drips into one of them. I raise my trembling hand to wipe it away, but my wrist is grasped hard, and Jeff's fingers dig into the muscle.

"Don't touch it." Jeff demands, and lets go of me.

I start to say something, but the words tangle and feel like glass in my throat. All that comes out is a rough sounding squawk. I'm still on my knees, and Jeff kneels in front of me. His hand finds the swollen bulge still wanting badly between my legs and his fingers skim over the denim, scratching the thick fabric, and sending ticklish, maddening, sensations through my hardness. I groan out desperately as it twitches in the hot prison of my pants and move my hands downwards to undo the button and fly. Jeff's palm rings out against my face.

"Don't touch!" He barks again, and wipes the cum he'd gotten on his smacking hand against my bare chest.

"P-ple-ease…" I manage to get out from my abused throat.

His hands make deliberate slow work of the button and zipper. Finally he slips the jeans down as I wiggle my hips to help, and I feel my freedom twitching against my belly at attention.

"Impressive." Jeff smirks.

I don't see it because my eyes are screwed closed, but I can hear the expression in his toying voice. His fingertip ghosts from the tip to the base tracing a slow track that meets the rounded sack beneath. Even though his hand cups it gently it still sends a spike of pain through me, and I know I'm probably blue from needing to cum so badly. My stomach is cramping up as it all builds and builds with nowhere to go. All I can do is sit there trembling and whimpering. I try to touch myself again but it only earns a squeeze to that sensitive part of me which makes tears spring to my eyes and well over. I don't understand what he's doing or why, I came here in hopes of finding comfort, not even sex, and certainly not cruelty. He's managing to make me feel more worthless than I did before, and the pain isn't just between my legs, it's somewhere that fingers can't touch.

"Do you want to cum for me?" Jeff asks, his voice still sing-songish. His words sound like those of the playground bully who tosses the ball over your head as you stand in the middle trying to reach it, as he asks stupidly and viciously, do you want it?

"I…I don't even care." I admit, my voice no more than a broken whisper. Silent tears roll slowly from my closed eyes. I try to get up onto my shaking legs, but Jeff pushes me back down before I can even get to my feet. His mouth wraps around me, bathing the pulsing organ in hot wet movements and forceful sucking. My hips buck spasticly into his working mouth and I cum quickly, filling him with everything I had coiled inside. He pulls away and I sigh as the final relief of my thundering orgasm ebbs and flows over me like a lapping tide. I open my eyes slowly, to see his face in front of mine. His cheeks are distended with what was still held in his mouth, like a child who holds his breath to throw a tantrum. Before I can blink, his palms slam the bulging cheeks and spray my already soiled face with the load I had emptied into him, mingled with his own spit. The thick mask drips sticky over my face which heats red with shame beneath, as ropes and drops splat onto my chest and down my neck.

"You were _never_ good enough for my brother, you fucking douche bag!" Jeff bites off with a snarl, which morphs into a sick grin. "I'm so glad I was finally able to break you up." He laughs, and the words make me feel sick. "You look good covered in white though, maybe I'll paint a picture of it to show Matty what a dirty fuck-slut you are." He draws his hand over his mouth, and wipes it on his jeans. I just want to leave, and never come back.

I find myself moments later back in my own room scrubbing my face and weeping into the sink basin as I think seriously about just drowning myself in the soapy water. I stumble out of the bathroom still dripping wet and foamy from the sink-bath and go to my suitcase. I pull out a small box, and then go to the minibar in my room to raid it for whatever's strongest. I end up back in the bathroom sitting on the toilet lid. On the rim of the sink is a pack of cigarettes that I'd been trying to quit. One of them is missing from the crumpled package and is hanging from my sore lips. The lighter has fallen into the sink after I'd sat it on the edge and I just leave it there to mingle with the lingering cummy bubbles. I take a deep drag and let the smoke out on a sob. For a moment I hold the burning white stick between my fingers but I drop it onto the tiles because I'm shaking so badly. I put it back to my lips and leave it smoldering there as I reach for the shot glass and whatever alcohol I had grabbed. It's dark and the words on the small bottle are German, so I figure it had to be good enough to drown away everything. The glass lip of the bottle rattles against that of the shot glass as I attempt to pour without spilling. It isn't working so well, and it occurs to me that I don't even need the damn glass anyway. I swipe the bottle and the butt of it catches the small glass and knocks it to the floor where it shatters into a few big pieces.

I take the cigarette between my fingers again and blow out another cloud of smoke and watch as it lazily drifts upwards. The tears keep steadily tracing down my face, as I think of Matt over and over. I crush the burning end onto my jeans and watch morbidly fascinated, as it burns through the material and leaves a small circular blister on my thigh, before the embers die to a thin grey tail. I bring the bottle of whatever it is to my lips and guzzle the numbing liquid until I can't breathe. When I pull it away it's more than half drained, and I plan on fixing that with my next go. I rub at my aching eyes, still leaking, still lost, always. I watch as the clear salty drops splatter onto the tiles, and I notice the shards of broken shot glass, dripping with remains of the amber liquid. I wonder how one of the jagged fingers would look smeared with rubies instead. I pick one of them up, and study the pointed edge. Maybe when they find me, Jeff can paint that picture he wanted in white. Only this time, I think I'll wear red.


End file.
